Femme Fatale (Black Rose Book 2) Read online

  “You didn’t see Evelyn like I did. Hasn’t she been through enough with finding out she was married to a serial killer? And he was a necrophiliac on top of that! Now she’s telling me there’s a patient in her care who was abducted by a man who is a local celebrity.”

  “And you believe her?”

  “I believe the patient. Symptoms the alleged victim exhibits just can’t be faked. Evelyn said the poor girl went into a full-blown panic attack at just the sight of this.”

  I watch my wife reach into her pocket and pull out a folded up magazine article that, no doubt, had been in a hospital waiting room.

  “Since you seem to be so adamant about learning the ins and outs of serial killing, the first thing you need to do is find the magazine that article was torn out of and destroy it.”

  “Why?”

  “Enquiring minds want to know,” I chuckle, raising a brow as I study her. “Because any good investigator, who may or may not get their hands on it, would note a page had been torn out, and with a little research, they’d find out what information was printed on it. It only takes a bit of intrigue to get an agent on your scent. Detectives have an innate curiosity, and as a killer, the last thing you want to do is pique it.”

  “I never thought about that.”

  “That’s why I’m here, love.”

  I change the subject, moving on to whether or not I want to begin researching the quasi celebrity.

  “You’re correct; the man is a local celebrity. I’m surprised at what you’re asking me to do, Melanie. I quit killing for you and Tom… Now you want me to pick up where I left off and kill this man? I don’t think you understand what kind of monster you’re unleashing. It hasn’t been easy to keep the darkness within me at bay. Once the bloodlust takes me, there will be no caging the beast. I guess the best way to describe it would be to compare it to an addiction. I have an addiction to the high I feel when bleeding someone out. Also, what you’re asking me to do could possibly unleash something inside you, something you’re not even conscious is a part of your psyche. Just think… there could be a killer residing in you. I must say that I’m intrigued with the thought of my innocent little captive harboring something so dark.”

  She looks at me dubiously before she responds.

  “I’ve never killed anyone. What could it possibly unleash inside me?”

  “You must have some darkness, or you would never have been drawn to me. The darkness in me calls out to the shadows lurking in your soul, beckoning you to come out and play in my meadow of mayhem. You’re not as innocent as you would like to believe you are.”

  “I just want to help avenge this woman.”

  I move closer, pinning her to the wall, and smirk when I sense her breath quicken. It pleases me to watch her eyes dilate in response to the fear of not knowing what I might do to her. I’m a man who feeds off other people’s fear, but only my Melanie is privy to the sexual sadist side of me. Since I have been restraining myself from killing, she has, thankfully, been able to sate the bloodlust that plagues me. It’s a feeling similar to that of a drug intravenously weaving its way through my physical being; it’s an addiction I cannot curb. I never had any desire to stop killing; it was only for my family that there was such a lengthy hiatus.

  My fingers slowly and methodically twirl a piece of her hair, starting out with a gentle touch and working my way into a rough tug. I pull her into my face so that we’re nose to nose and hiss out my words in a menacing tone, almost as if I am accusing her, and maybe I am.

  “And now… after all this time, you ask me to kill?”

  Chapter Three

  Melanie

  Though my husband hasn’t agreed to what I asked him to do, he hasn’t necessarily refused either. Even after years of being married to him, his temperament is one that keeps me guessing. I’m feeling pretty confident at this point. My reasoning is that if he were truly unwilling to avenge this woman, he would have adamantly refused when I presented the idea yesterday. The first thing I did this morning was search for and grab the magazine we’d discussed. I know my husband well enough to know that he’ll ask me about it later. He might even go so far as to base his decision to help me on whether or not I listened to his warning. Regardless, it is now in my bag, safely tucked away, and I will burn it in the fireplace later. Now, it’s time to gather more evidence. I feel an odd excitement I’ve never experienced before, like I’m on some secret mission to avenge the woman who was assaulted. In a sense, I guess I am.

  The patient is sleeping when I quietly slip into the room to gather Intel on her. I am well aware my husband has a code when it comes to killing. The accused has to be guilty, or he won’t go through with the kill. He doesn’t thrill kill; he does, however, avenge those worthy of being defended.

  I am taking it upon myself to gather details on the victim before my husband asks me for the information. Staying one step ahead on things will help my chances of him going through with it. Without Black Rose, successfully ridding the world of this man will be impossible, and he’ll continue preying on women while he lies to the public about who and what he really is. The villain has only added insult to injury by being so hypocritical.

  Making my way into the patient’s bathroom, I eye her make-up bag. Rummaging through the contents unearths a pill bottle, revealing she was already on anti-depressants before her traumatic assault. That isn’t good. It’s hard enough for any woman to deal with the shame and guilt of rape, but this means her agony had to have been intensified. The guilt women face at the hands of their attackers is one of the main reasons I want to kill the man. Over and over, I’ve heard women blame themselves for the atrocity of being raped, and over and over, I’ve counseled them, explaining they are not at fault for a monster’s behavior. No wonder she doesn’t want to go through the anguish of facing her attackers in court. From previous experience with patients who have been through similar circumstances, I know the victim is often raked over the coals in an effort to discredit their testimony. I’ve even heard women go so far as to say it’s like being raped all over again.

  The rest of the contents in her bag are the standard items any woman would use in their beauty regime. I pull her purse over to go through it as well, and a tinge of guilt courses through me. I’m not in the habit of imposing on other people’s privacy. Convincing myself it’s for the greater good, I continue rifling through its contents. I fumble with her wallet in an effort to get one of her business cards. The latex gloves I’m wearing impede the dexterity I would normally have. There’s no doubt I’m probably being overly cautious, but this is a life or death issue, and I’ve resigned myself to believing it’s better to err on the side of caution. Perhaps I share more of my husband’s traits than I previously believed. Could he be right? Are there dark shadows in me just waiting, yearning to be released? It would be so much better to find out I have a dark side now than to be riddled with guilt after I commit the mortal sin of murder. I stuff the business card in my pocket and make a mental note to do an Internet search on her when I get home. I also have access to her medical records, which will provide me with a lot of insight into her life. If she has been under the care of a psychiatrist and been caught lying, it will reveal her true character to me. As badly as I want to kill her attacker, I don’t want to kill an innocent man more. Much like my husband, I need to know this man is truly guilty before I can justify being the cause of his death.

  My husband has access to police records and what he doesn’t have access to, he can hack. If there is anything about this woman online, he’ll be able to find it.

  I quietly make my way out to her room, treading lightly and moving quickly before anyone comes in to check on her. I grab the jeans she has laying over the standard hospital room chair and pull her cell phone from the pocket. I quickly scroll through her contacts and calendar, promptly writing down her last appointments and the address that, thankfully, hasn’t been deleted yet. I know she’s a realtor from talking to Evelyn, and I’m thinki
ng perhaps that’s the way her kidnapper lured her into his trap. Most realtors would feel comfortable meeting a man as high profile as Richard Roundtree on their own.

  Anyone living in Louisville, Kentucky knows that name. He’s the go-to guru for any philanthropy work that goes on in the area. From helping to save the library, to providing the animals at the local zoo a cage free environment, Richard has his hands in it. If it has anything to do with volunteer work, then you can bet his name is attached in some form or fashion. The guy is a staple in the society section of the local newspaper, dubbed the CJ—short for The Courier Journal.

  This poor girl was probably suckered into believing she hit pay dirt when he called for her to show him a house in one of the most affluent neighborhoods in the area. According to her note, she had made an appointment to show him homes in communities listed among the top ten most expensive and elite places to live in Louisville. Neighborhoods like Bonny Castle and Mocking Bird Valley are known for being home to some of the wealthiest millionaires in the area—the crème de la crème of society. The girl was probably blinded by dollar signs before she even met Richard Roundtree in person.

  If what we suspect is true really happened, then what started out as a dream come true for this girl, quickly turned into a nightmare—a nightmare there’s no escape from. The only way this girl will ever be free of Richard Roundtree is if my husband and I step in and put a permanent end to his antics by putting him six feet under in a pine box…

  Chapter Four

  Charles

  My wife is asking me to do something that’s sure to unleash a part of me I have managed to keep subdued for years. One thing I know she doesn’t understand is that I enjoy the take down as well as the kill of an opponent. The more of a challenge it is, the more satisfying I find it to be. I am a stalker by nature. Even in the pursuit of my wife, that particular personality trait had been prevalent. After years of being married to her, I still find it very satisfying to monitor her every move, stalking her from the shadows. I’m in love with my wife, but love and obsession are very closely related to each other in my world.

  With Tom away at college, I no longer have to worry about him witnessing the killer within me. Most children don’t even have one parent who is a killer, and now my son will have two. Will Melanie find satisfaction in the hunt and ultimate kill like me, or will she find the act and the sight of my bloodstained hands appalling? I know I run the risk of horrifying her. For her sake, I hope she can deal with the mental and emotional aspects of what she will witness because, really, there is no other choice. I will never allow her to leave me.

  There’s also the possibly she’ll enjoy seeing someone die for their sins. If she does happen to develop a taste for blood, we will certainly make a deadly team against the criminal element in our area. The possibility makes me smile in hopeful anticipation.

  Years ago, when I was at the height of my killing career, the media had actually dubbed me the Black Rose Killer because of a black rose left on the body of a pimp I killed. The worthless son of a bitch had been responsible for ruining a man’s life to the point where he felt suicide was his only option. With plans to rob him for their drug money, the pimp and his hooker girlfriend had set the poor man up, just as they had countless victims before him. The victim spent six weeks in the hospital recuperating from injuries the pimp had inflicted upon him. When the media caught wind of the story, a huge scandal had ensued, and with his face splattered all over the local stations and newspapers, his wife immediately left him, taking their two children with her. He had also lost his job, along with the respect of his colleagues and any hope of gaining employment elsewhere. At that point, he decided there was no reason to live, and he jumped to his death from a high-rise building. In turn, I killed the pimp and his junkie hooker girlfriend. Though it made me feel better, there was no undoing the damage that had been done to the man and his family.

  After I killed him and left my signature black rose, the crime rate had actually gone down. Criminals were afraid of the man who left his mark in the form of something as sinister as a single black rose. When the killings suddenly stopped, many of the media outlets had surmised that I must have either died or been arrested; after all, serial killers don’t just quit killing. Statistically, nothing stops them except death or incarceration. However, I beat those odds, and I controlled my darker urges for the sake of my family. Now, I will unleash that part of me that hungers for blood at the request of a family member. Oh, the irony life sometimes throws our way! It’s almost like fate is playing a sadistic joke on us just because she’s in a mood that day, fickle bitch that she is.

  A part of me fears killing with my wife, but I have to admit there is also a darker part of me that is sexually excited by the prospect. The thought of her watching me—the gleam of a knife in my gloved hand—while I cut into the chest cavity of a subdued victim is highly arousing. The warehouse I have for the sole purpose of executing vengeance is still set up like I never stopped killing. Everything is perfectly set up for the kill and the cleanup, ready for the act to be committed. The concrete floor with the drain that has washed away all evidence of the blood I’ve spilled over the years cries out for a new victim. Soon, I will answer that call.

  Chapter Five

  Charles

  Looking up from my desk, I see my wife entering my home office. I say nothing and just pat the seat next to mine in a silent order for her to come join me. My fingers fly over the keyboard with the familiarity of a man who is accustomed to using the Internet for research.

  Though I haven’t updated my Black Rose blog in years, the fans have been as loyal as ever, faithfully posting their pictures and comments. There is a whole community out there who believes what I am doing is the only way to deal with criminals who have no chance of being rehabilitated.

  The familiar Black Rose insignia and the poem I had written for my wife, the only woman I’ve ever loved, pops up.

  Though a single black rose

  tis his kiss of death;

  for her it holds no power.

  For when she doth receive,

  tis not a mere black rose:

  but a bouquet thereof…

  My wife’s sharp intake of breath surprises me.

  “That’s beautiful.”

  “I wrote it for you, but I was unable to give it to you until now. I couldn’t take the chance of losing you.”

  “But I knew who you were, what you were doing.”

  “Yes, but there was still the chance that you’d think I had gone back to my old ways if you found out I was still posting on this site.”

  “So, you let all of this go? For me?”

  “Yes, I did. I love you more than the kill.”

  “And now I’m asking you to kill again,” she responds, sounding a bit unsure of her decision. She looks at me as if she needs affirmation to put her mind at ease. “It’s for a good reason, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do,” I tell her, giving her what she needs to assuage any guilt she might be feeling.

  “These people are really dedicated to you.”

  “That has always amazed me as well. I have to say I feel a connection with these people.”

  “And now I’ll be connecting with you in this way.”

  She looks a bit dreamy eyed at the prospect, and despite how much excitement I feel at being able to share this part of me with my wife, I feel the need to counsel her.

  “I hope you know what you’re getting into. Thinking about killing and actually killing are two totally different things.”

  “Are you worried I’ll have second thoughts?”

  “No, I’m worried it will traumatize you,” I tell her honestly.

  “Do you think it will?”

  “We’ve been over this… I think it might release the hidden shadows in you, allowing a darkness you never knew existed to be freed from the portals of that innocent little soul of yours.”

  Melanie

  Looking at all the posts
these strangers have put up for the man I’m in love with causes an odd sort of jealousy to course through my veins. These strangers have shared a part of my husband he has previously denied me. I comfort myself with the knowledge that there will be no more secrets between us. I will now share things with him no one else has ever been privy to; I will kill with him. Not only will I be the first person to work with him, but I’m the first woman—his own personal Femme Fatale. The thought excites me beyond measure.

  I force myself to push aside any distracting thoughts not benefitting my learning experience. I need to garner all the information I can because I don’t want to be the cause of my husband getting caught. All these years, he has managed to fly under the FBI’s radar. More than once, my husband has spoken of an agent by the name of David Turner, who is following the Black Rose case. He has also divulged that if anyone has the skill to catch him, it is this specific agent and his partner. One thing I do know is that once an agent is on a case, they are unlikely to let it rest, following it for years and always searching for the culprit. My husband has told me, in some instances, cases can become obsessions. He says there’s always that one case the agent can’t and/or won’t let go of. I wonder if Black Rose is ‘that case’ for Agent Turner.

  “How do you stay off of the FBI’s radar? Can’t they search out your IP address?”

  “Yes, but I have the ability to be all over the grid. Look at it like bouncing off different towers so they can’t nail down the actual address I’m operating from.”

  I look at the various monitors on my husband’s large desk. There are monitors for security, for work, and even the one we are looking at now that shows the blog.

  Once again, Charles’ voice interrupts my thoughts.

  “Time to find out what we can about our suspect.”

  I watch as he types Richard Roundtree’s name into a police database. I figure he is bypassing the typical search, knowing all it will bring up is the man’s accolades.